


show me what you are

by Serindrana



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fridge Horror, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3116732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I would know you. Show me what you are.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Cadbranwyn Trevelyan can still hear Envy's voice by the time she reaches Skyhold.</p><p>--</p><p>Takes place directly after Champions of the Just, with lots of spoilers from there through In Your Heart Shall Burn. Warnings for remembered physical assault and mentions of self-harm by a third character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	show me what you are

She could still hear Envy’s voice by the time they rode back into Haven. Her thighs and ass burned from too long in the saddle on too-soft skin, and her arms and throat were covered in bruises that had been slow to fade. She’d thought- she’d  _hoped_ \- that by the time they crossed half of Ferelden, the voice would have stopped.

It made her deeply uneasy that it hadn’t.

No, scratch that-

It _terrified_ her.

Cadbranwyn slid from her saddle, wincing and trying to hide it by looking only at the flank of her horse.  _I would know you. Show me what you are._  She ignored Cullen as she climbed the steps up towards Haven proper, keeping her head down even as he called to her, too afraid to look up and see Leliana slitting his throat.  _Any who challenge the word of the Herald will be corrected._  She bundled her cloak tighter around her, and closed her eyes tightly against the assault.

 _All that get in my way – all that doubt – have no place in this world_.

Maker’s breath, but Envy had been closer to the truth than it had known.

* * *

 

Cullen stared after her perhaps a moment too long. The pain on her face – or had it been fear? – had kept him rooted after he realized she wasn’t going to respond to him.

Sighing, he scrubbed a hand over his jaw and turned back to the gates. The templar host would be a day behind, perhaps more, but there was much to prepare. He watched as the rest of her immediate party dismounted and trickled in, Bull joking with Sera, Cassandra looking between a good meal and the work to be done.

And then there was Solas, still as a statue until Cullen look at him. Then he inclined his head, and stepped closer. “A word, if I may?”

Cullen folded his arms across his chest. “Go ahead.”

“Privately,” Solas said, then gestured with one slim arm back towards the house he’d taken from his own.

He frowned, then beckoned over one of his more thoughtful and loud lieutenants and rattled off a litany of what should be done for when the templars arrived. They’d already gone over it three times; it was likely unnecessary. But it gave him a small feeling of security as he followed Solas through the snow, and out of earshot of any but perhaps Leliana’s birds.

“How much do you know of what happened at Therinfal?” Solas asked, expression unreadable.

“The report said that the Lord Seeker was actually a pretender. An Envy demon. Our Herald vanquished it, and dissolved the Order to our service. That was the extent of it.” He shrugged his shoulders, bringing his furs up closer to his ears. The thought of  _demons,_ as always, made his scalp tingle with remembered terror. Pain. He pushed through it; he was getting better.

“All your facts are correct, but they omit something of perhaps greater importance. I saw our Herald’s face, when she confronted Envy and revealed its form. Too much changed in her expression for it to have happened in an instant.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it was inside of her head. Perhaps for a minute, perhaps for an hour. Time moves... differently, as I believe you are aware? When one such as that pries at your mind, looking for a way in.”

His lip curled into an instinctive grimace. “I am aware.” Trevelyan’s face- that fear- “But the demon was slain.”

“Its physical form, yes. And that likely destroyed it entirely. Still, I worry... Envy wished to  _become_  her. And though I hardly know her well, I do know that dissolving the Order into servitude is something that Envy, acting as her and in the service of this  _Elder One_ , might do. Anything else would not benefit it as strongly while allaying any suspicions an outright defection might cause.

“She would not talk to me about what happened in that moment where she was... transformed, on the journey back. She wouldn’t talk to anybody about it. I thought you might keep an eye on her, given your training.”

Cullen swallowed, thickly, then looked to the chantry. “You do not have faith in her strength of will?” He did. He had decided, the moment they got the messenger bird with the news, that he would trust her.

“That is not at issue. She is a Circle-trained mage. In my experience, they are less prepared to face tempting spirits than they think they are. They are to a one over-confident, and they understand very little of what they trade in. Her willpower may be strong enough, but her  _knowledge_...”

“I will look into it,” he said, voice clipped. “Though I think your worries are out of hand. We need unity.”

“Behind your figurehead, yes, I know.”

Cullen turned back to him, scowling. Then the scowl fell away. He lifted a hand and rubbed at the furrow between his brows. “She has performed admirably until now. She deserves our respect for that alone.”

“Yes, of course. You are correct.” Solas’s smile was easy.

Was it really so obvious that Trevelyan was being... used? No, not used. Positioned. She held the mark, but not the background, not the  _knowledge_ , as Solas had put it. She was the emblem. If Leliana and Josephine did most of the real work, and Trevelyan was sent out on small good-will missions to keep her out of trouble and visible, was that truly wrong? She’d proved invaluable, at least in his eyes. She was a valuable part of this Inquisition.

She simply wasn’t the part they told her that she was.

“I will look into it,” he repeated, wearily. “It should be a relatively simple matter – Envy does not handle possession well, and is not at its strongest in a host. Still, should she truly be possessed....”

“Then we have lost our Herald, and her unique ability,” Solas finished. “Or at least, that is what your Chantry tells you. I may have additional options. Let me know if they will be necessary.”

He inclined his head and backed away.

 _Maker take me_ , Cullen thought as he turned back towards the gates.

* * *

 

Haven’s chantry had several storage spaces, including two dusty, chilly attics. Bran had found one of them several weeks before Therinfal; it was a good place to sit, alone, inside, away from people’s stares and whispers, and away from Cassandra’s watchful gaze. She retreated to it as soon as she’d passed on the bare minimum necessary to Leliana about the templars and stood through the ensuing lecture that it hadn't been her decision to make.

 _I know_ , she'd thought, anger flaring through her fear. Then it had turned to exhaustion.  _I'm only here to look pretty and glow._

She stopped by her room only to change out of her soiled road clothes into her night shift.

She’d set wards up all around her, once she was up in the dusty space, and now held up a tarnished hand mirror, studying her face in its distorted reflection.

Her only relief was that she was  _fairly_  certain that if Envy had taken her place, she would know. She would be dead, somewhere, her spiraling thoughts stopped for good. The fact that she remembered everything leading to this day – every wrenching, painful thing, details Envy had no way of knowing – was a comfort.

Cold, but... a comfort.

Her fingers traced the jagged scar from her nose down across her mouth and out to her cheek. It was still red, almost bloody, though nearly six months had passed since those Marcher farmers had caught her trying to keep warm in their tool shed. She’d been separated from the rest of the group she’d left Ostwicks’ circle with, when the rebellion happened. She had just begun finding the signs they had left to guide her home that morning. A few more days and...

A few more days and things would have been very different. Those men wouldn’t have found her conjuring a small fire, and they wouldn’t have attacked her. They wouldn’t have pinned her down and stuck their fingers in her mouth and pried her jaw open, grabbing at her tongue as if it were a lashing eel. They wouldn’t have tried to cut it out in a misguided attempt to stop her magic until they could get her to some templar that probably didn’t even live in their town anymore.

She wouldn’t have had to fight, power arcing from her fingertips, barely aimed because she could not use the ritual words to focus herself, could not stop her heart from racing. The blade had slipped, cut off a chunk of her tongue (but a small one, only a small one, she had been  _lucky_  the healer had said), then sliced its horrible way through her lip, gashed open her cheek, caught on her upper lip and tore up to her nostril when the man had tried again.

She closed her eyes, tightly. She took several deep, shaking breaths. Nobody here knew about that. Nobody here knew about her panic, her foolishness... not on that day. Surely they’d all seen her weakness  _since_  then, but the Marches, at least, were behind her.

Envy had seen none of it, none of her weakness except that which was native to her heart. She took another deep breath, then let it out in a choking, seizing gasp as the panic came back in a rush. Envy hadn’t seen  _any_  of it, and yet it had known. It had somehow known that she wanted to control everybody who saw her, wanted to make sure they saw only what she wanted them to see. It had known. It wasn't that she wanted to  _rule_  - it was that she wanted to be beyond reproach. She’d protested at the images of herself subjugating the rest of the Inquisition, executing Giselle for heresy, but-

But it wasn’t such a large step away.

 _This_  was why she had no real power here. This was why she didn’t want any. She was dangerous.

And that was ignoring the risk of possession.

 _Our reach begins to match my ambition, but we will strive for more._  It hadn’t managed to learn her voice, but her mind filled in for it.

She heard a faint sound to her left, in the direction of the ladder, but she was staring too hard into her reflection to care about it. How could she know? How could she know, for certain, that she wasn’t a walking bomb? Those echoes of its voice could just be her fears, but there was always a chance.

Another sound, the scuffing of a boot. She looked up.

Cullen stared at her from across her wards, face pale, jaw tight. Fear shot through her, followed with deep calm.

 _He_  could tell her.

“Commander,” she said, softly. Her lips curled into a slight smile even as she felt the rest of her face crumple into overwhelmed grief. She looked away, then set down the mirror, taking a deep breath.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he replied, his own voice slightly choked. “... Are you alright?”

She hesitated, worrying at her lower lip. Then she shrugged and tried to smile again. “I’m honestly not sure.”

“Solas told me some of what happened. At Therinfal,” he said. “... I apologize for prying, but I feel it’s important. Were you Harrowed, before the Circles fell?”

_Ah._

_Solas is worried, too._ Very reassuring.

Bran nodded, shifting to face him. She folded her hands in her lap to try to contain her rising panic. “Yes. Seven years ago. If you- if you need proof, you may ask Vivienne. She’s met Ostwick mages before.”

“Including you?”

“No, but at Ostwick, we have a firmly-held tradition. When a mage is Harrowed, she gets a tattoo.” She lifted a hand and gestured at her own face. “Most get it on their hand, or in ink that only responds to veilfire, so that if the day ever came when they were free, it would be invisible. I... never considered leaving.”

He nodded, slowly. “I’ve... heard of such things. Good. That’s- good. That you were Harrowed.”

“Was Solas... concerned?”

Cullen cleared his throat. He fidgeted with some of the fur around his shoulders. He was making a concerted effort not to touch the sword at his waist, she realized; he usually let at least one hand rest there while at ease. His stance, however, was firmly at the ready.

He was prepared.

“Yes. He said it was likely that you spent some time- interacting with the demon.”

She wondered if she should lie. If she should be defensive. If Cassandra had asked, or Varric... but she was growing tired of all the expectations heaped onto her. Even the expectation of failure that Leliana seemed to have for her was too much. She reached up and scrubbed at her face, pinky nail catching on her scar.

“Well, he’s right,” she said. “Felt like... about an hour, all told. It was incredibly unpleasant.”

“Did it try to tempt you?”

“No. I didn’t understand, at first. It didn’t try to win me over with promises. Instead, it showed me- terrible things.” She shook her head and let her hands drop again, looking up at Cullen pleadingly. With a twitch of her hand, she let the wards fall.

He approached only one step.

“It showed  _me_  doing terrible things. In the future. It wanted to see my reaction, I think, but it was also determined to prove that it was a  _better_  me. In its mind... it was showing off.”

“I have never faced a demon of envy,” Cullen said, softly. “But that matches what Solas told me, and what I have read.”

“I tired it out. I gave it too much to process, and it let go. That’s when I came back, and when I killed it.”

“And it  _is_  dead.”

She nodded, then frowned. “But...”

“Solas,” Cullen murmured, “is concerned that dissolving the Order and absorbing it is the best next step of Envy, if it’s inside of you.”

“I know,” she said, letting her head drop forward. “I’ve known that since I made that decision.”

She waited for him to advance again. Instead, he only chuckled. Her head jerked up. “What-“

“I don’t think,” he said with a shrug, “that your demon would have been that subtle, just now.”

“Subtle?”

“Feigning distress and devastating honesty.” His smile was tight, but seemingly genuine. Relieved. “Even a demon of pride, with all its cleverness, would balk at simply stating what it was as a way to convince somebody that it  _wasn’t_.”

“You can’t know that,” she said.

“Perhaps not,” Cullen said, “but I’ve seen possessed mages. You seem very much still yourself, Herald.”

 _What does that mean?_  Weak, vulnerable, volatile, confused-

“You seem  _worried_.”

Slowly, he dropped to his knee before her. He held her gaze firmly. “Believe me, I... have had more unpleasant experiences with abominations than most.  Even now, I fear that I am often too hasty in how I assess risk. I’m still amazed you took my advice regarding the templars, because  _I_  can see that I was in part driven by my own fears of what having so many mages around unwatched could lead to. But you seem... strong. Aware. Understandably shaken.”

“I could hear it speaking to me,” she whispered, beginning to shake. “Even before it pulled me into my mind. I could hear it  _speaking_ , and nobody else could. I thought-“

She couldn’t finish the sentence. She shut her eyes, feeling her whole body quake.

 _He can’t see this. He can’t see this._ ** _Fuck_** _._  He would tell Leliana, he would tell Cassandra, and while they still needed her and couldn’t get rid of her-

Now they would  _know_.

“Herald,” Cullen whispered, and she flinched as one of his hands came to rest on her shoulder. His touch was light. “I understand. Tell me what you need.”

“What?” she croaked.

“You need something to trust in yourself again. What is it? I have... seen this before. A mage at the Fereldan Circle ripped his skin to shreds, trying to dig out a demon he was  _sure_  was there. He eventually begged to be made Tranquil. There was nothing there- it was only him. We couldn’t save him, but perhaps-“

“Dispel me,” she said, forcing her eyes open once more. She stared into his, even as he frowned and pulled away slightly. “Do it. Do what you were trained to. If it’s in me...”

“It will fight,” he finished, swallowing heavily once the words were out. “Yes, that is- that is probably the best answer. It will hurt, though.”

“It will hurt more if I follow the path it laid out for me,” she said, leaning forward into his touch. “I am ready.”

“You may instinctually lash out-“

“I’m  _ready_ , Cullen. Maker’s ass, just  _do_  it.”

It ripped through her less than a second later, the yawning, tearing feeling of something being pulled away from every inch of her body. Her stomach roiled and her aching muscles clenched down, and she cried out, falling back. Cullen’s other arm went around her. The mark on her hand flared, growing brighter in response, and she stared at her wrist to make sure it wasn’t actually being flayed apart. She gasped for breath.

“Herald-“

“Again. Until there’s nothing left,” she rasped.

Cullen grimaced, but the sensation tore through her again. She shuddered, going limp. His arm tightened, pulling her against him. Distantly, she questioned why- he could just have easily laid her out on the floor. The templars at Ostwick had always done voluntary dispelling like this with the mage in question stretched out in their bed. She remembered being just shy of her Harrowing and agreeing with her teachers that it was best if she elected to go through one trial dispelling, just to know what it would feel like. Safer for everybody. Safer, if she could learn not to panic.

She didn’t panic. She felt no urge to fight at all. Her hand burned, where it reacted strangely with Cullen’s pulses, but that was very different from feeling a demon quailing in the back of her mind.

There was still a faint well of power, though, pooling at the base of her spine that he hadn’t driven out. She leaned into him and murmured, “One more time.”

This time, the pulse was gentler.

She frowned.

“Cullen-“

“I’m afraid,” he said, voice ragged – was he panting? – “that I am exhausted. Are you...?”

She searched. The faint well was barely a droplet, and aside from it she felt fully empty. The droplet grew. The voice didn’t return.

Bran let out a shaking breath. “I’m okay,” she said, pulling back just enough that she could see his face. He looked worn. Hollow. Much like how she imagined she looked. She managed a small smile for him. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he said, and inclined his head. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

Her belly tightened. Her fingers curled where they rested lightly against his side.

When she’d arrived, she’d taken to flirting with him, little teasing comments. It had been impulsive. She’d wanted him to like her, so that she’d be  _safe_. So that he wouldn’t turn on her. She hadn’t ever thought he would come to  _protect_  her, though, and now- now-

He cleared his throat. “Ah- I should really be returning. To the barracks. If you’re okay to stand-“

Her cheeks burned, and she pulled away. His arm fell from her waist after a brief hesitation. “I- I should be, yes.”

“The ladder-“

“I can climb down a ladder, Cullen.” She smiled, ignoring the pull of her scar at the corner of her mouth, and stood.

Her legs immediately protested, and she hissed, closing her eyes and rubbing at her thigh through the thin pale cloth of her shift.

Cullen made a faint, strangled sound, and she opened her eyes to find him staring at the movement of her hand. His cheeks had gone pink as well.

She stilled her hand. “Long ride,” she said. “I’m getting better at it, though.”

His head jerked up and he opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Right. Ah, well. I... I hadn’t gotten a chance to say that I- appreciated how you handled the Order. I approve. Truly.”

“Thank you.” She bit down on her lip to still the urge to tease him. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to unnerve him enough to build up a new wall between them, or draw him back to her.

Better not to say anything until she was sure.

“So, the barracks...?” she said, instead.

“The barr- right. So I will- see you in the morning, Herald.” He moved for the ladder.

“Thank you,” she said.

He glanced back. With a deep breath, he nodded. “You’re- welcome.”

“Call me Bran.”

“Perhaps another day, Lady Trevelyan.”

He turned to the ladder, and descended.

* * *

 

Two weeks later, the Breach was sealed and Cullen was  _still_  thinking about how the Herald had felt in his arms.

He’d tried just about everything. He’d run drills until he’d dropped from exhaustion (and left twelve reports unaddressed that night, which Leliana frowned at him over the next day); he’d meditated and prayed for  _hours_  (and his knees still hadn’t forgiven him); he’d had too much to drink one evening with Varric (and Josephine had decided the next morning would be perfect to have him sit in on several meetings with the local shrieking nobility).

And yet he was still thinking of her. When she was around, he would see her walking over to speak with Cassandra, and his heart would begin pounding. He'd listen to her voice and hear all that uncertainty and brilliance and anxiety and hope. When she  _wasn’t_ , somebody would mention her name and his arms would feel heavy with her again.

This was bad. This was incredibly, horribly bad. Cullen groaned and pressed his fist to his brow. This was what had led to his own special, particular torture at Kinloch.  _This_  was incredibly ill-advised, and unreciprocated. The Breach was sealed, but what next? In a best case scenario she would solve a murder mystery and leave, and in a worst case scenario, he would watch as they brought her lifeless body back.

He wasn’t sure whether he was grateful or disappointed that she hadn’t spoken to him since that night in the attic. Or rather- he  _was_  disappointed, and horrified that he  _wasn’t_  grateful, so he continuously  _tried_  to be grateful. That wall of good-natured charm – cracked though it was – was back up in place around her, and that must have meant she was confident. Comfortable. As happy as could be, after a demonic incursion.

 _Maker_ , why hadn’t he panicked more when he’d seen how scared she’d been? It had been the right move, but-

But he’d trusted her.

Sure, there had been the expected fear when he saw her sitting by herself, surrounded by wards, unresponsive. He'd called her name - she hadn't reacted. And he'd worried that he would need to break her wards to get to her, and that even if she wasn't possessed, she might respond... rashly. And what if she  _had_  been possessed? What if she'd used an abomination's strength to subdue him? He'd known to be afraid. He'd waited for her, his guard up.

And instead, she'd trusted him. She'd opened up to him. Thoughts of Kinloch had fallen away, and he'd seen instead exactly what he'd been trained for - a mage, worried, coming to him for protection. He'd ached, that he couldn't give her the guidance she'd needed. But he'd given her peace. Maker help him, he'd given her peace and she'd been  _relieved_  and had rested in his arms...

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Chance had brought her to them. To  _him_. She was not a strong woman, was not a hero, was not any sort of leader. She claimed it was Andraste who had brought her to Haven, and she clung to that with all her heart. They all nodded and agreed because it helped the fiction they were spinning to keep the masses placated and safe, but she was no leader. She was just a scared girl who was charming and insightful and far more successful than even she expected to be, and he was in trouble.

He eyed the keg again. The celebration went on around him, and for the fiftieth time that evening, he considered joining in.

That was when Leliana’s scout arrived.

* * *

 

Bran stared at the doors of the chantry, her heart in her throat.

“An avalanche is not going to stop a dragon,” she said, loudly, hoping that volume would cover up the panic in her voice. “It won’t work.”

“Ah, yes, but it  _will_  slow them down,” the man from Tevinter said. “And they appear to be here for  _you_.”

“I don’t think-“

“It’s true, Herald.”

She flinched, turning to look at Cullen.

He had the decency to look ashamed. Worried, even. “At Therinfal, the Elder One’s servant wanted to become  _you_. It lured you there, and it targeted you, and you alone. If what our friend here says is true among the mages at Redcliffe, too... then...”

“What are you saying?” she asked. Her eyes were burning, and not only from the smoke.  _No, no, no_. She knew what he was saying. He was saying-

“Our best shot is for you to go out there, and distract him while we get everybody else out.”

She turned back to the doors to hide her face from him.  _No no no._  She wanted to run. She wanted to run, out through the old passageway and away from everything. She had never asked to be the Herald, to be a figurehead, and now they expected her to  _die_  for them?

She’d known this was coming, but to hear it – from  _Cullen_  –

“Perhaps you will surprise him,” Cullen murmured, apology heavy in his voice.

Internally, she screamed. She howled. She was not a hero, was not a leader. Was this all she was worth, then? Paraded around, used to bolster the Inquisition ( _and close the Breach but that wasn’t as hard as everybody had feared, they had barely needed her, they had only needed her hand_ ), and then sacrificed? A beast to slaughter?

All she’d ever wanted was to stay safe in the Ostwick Circle. Then, all she’d wanted was to find a safe place to live out the chaos.

Dying had never been on the agenda. Her scar ached. If  _this_  was how it ended, she should have just given up.

_I can't do this._

Her hands shook on her staff.

“Herald?”

She hated the concern she could hear in his voice. The shame. The guilt.

She hated that she couldn't convince herself that she was imagining it.

Her only consolation was that, when she walked out these doors, she would prove to herself that she would never become what Envy had shown her. That no matter how damaged she was, how often she failed, how much she  _wanted_ -

She’d be dead, so it wouldn’t matter.

She bowed her head. Andraste had gone to the pyre. If she really was chosen – if all her clinging to a convenient fiction to protect herself had really been to something  _true_  – then of course it would end like this.

“I understand,” she said, softly. “Get everybody out.”

* * *

 

He watched the chantry door close behind her, and cursed every name he knew.


End file.
